


Fallout 4 Drabbles

by eratothemuse



Series: Fallout 4 [1]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Drabble, Drabble Collection, Drabbles, F/M, Fluff, Multi, NSFW, Smut, not safe for work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-15 18:23:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19301272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eratothemuse/pseuds/eratothemuse
Summary: So.................. here's some drabbles involving Reader!SS/characters of the Fo4 fandom.





	1. Deacon - Bluff

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all some of these are old and have been on my computer for a while. I'm just posting them finally! Lol! Hope you enjoy! Each chapter will have their own separate warnings & ratings!
> 
> **Warnings: Language, some NSFW context  
>  Rated: M**  
> Gif source: https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/185740687162/

 

Goodneighbor really did come alive at night. A deep, pink glow illuminated the streets from the  _ Memory Den _ 's neon lettering, warming the figures of the locals as they came and went in the night. The sound of drifters laughing carried from down the street, a cat screeching in an alleyway, gunshots in the far distance--- it was as calm as a night in the Commonwealth ever got, especially this far into the heart of the city that had once been Boston.

Deacon took another drag of his cigarette, taking it all in. Watching and listening with far more precision than his relaxed lean would indicate. He looked like just another drifter, plaid button-down hugging his shoulders and just the right amount of  _ fuck off _ in his demeanor to keep people from an approach, yet allowing him to still seem nonthreatening enough that he was left without a second glance. It also helped that in Goodneighbor, folks tended to keep to their own business. Everyone except for him, at least.

It’s been nearly two weeks since Whisper dropped him off at HQ with little more explanation than  _ there's something I need to handle _ . He knew better than to ask her to elaborate, but his interest was piqued, and Deacon wasn't one to be left wanting for answers.

That's why, soon as he caught wind from a runner she was in Goodneighbor visiting the mayor and scoping out a potential merc for a job, he made his way down from where he’d been rotting on the North End without her, keeping to the shadows and out of sight just enough to allow him time to figure out just what  _ exactly  _ she was up to--- which she had apparently been keeping close to the chest, judging by the digging he had to achieve to figure out as little as he had.

It almost felt like back before she'd followed the Freedom Trail and joined up with the Railroad--- before she even took up the name  _ Whisper _ . Following her around the ‘Wealth had become second-nature long before Deacon had ever formally met her, and part of him found a certain humor in the situation he found himself in, once again.

Somehow, no matter what, he always found himself following her around.

He watched from the edge of an alleyway as she stumbled out of the Third Rail, laughing under the arm of the merc he had confirmed she'd hired three days ago. MacCready, he was called, leaned into Whisper with a grin along his jaw, a satisfactory twinkle in his eyes like he'd cracked a particularly good joke and was proud of the way her light laugh carried in the night because of it. Deacon watches through his sunglasses as her fingers dance along the collar of his coat, before tugging him down to whisper something conspiratorially in his ear. The merc comes away with a slight dusting of a blush along his stubbled cheeks, but whether it was from her words or her proximity, Deacon couldn’t be sure.

Deacon still thought she should have chose  _ Charmer  _ as her code-name instead.

MacCready gives a nod, and he's just close enough that the sound of his rough, “Yeah, boss. See ya’ tomorrow,” catches in Deacon's ears.

“Bright an’ early, yeah, Mac?” she reminds, her voice holding a jest as a glimmering laugh falls from her lips upon the annoyed groan the merc gives in response.

Part of Deacon was relieved she didn't plan to take the merc back to her room at the Rex for the night, but he'd sooner die than admit that to anyone but himself. She stands there for a beat, watching MacCready leave her, only turning once he’s fully retreated around the corner. Deacon was assuming to stock up on supplies at  _ Kill Or Be Killed _ , considering his intel told him they planned on heading out of Goodneighbor tomorrow.

Deacon takes another leisurely drag of his cigarette as she walks closer, her eyes glued to the ground as a small smirk paints her lips. He isn't alarmed. She would have to walk past his alleyway on the way back to the Rexford, anyway, and it wasn't the first time this week she'd done something similar without realizing he was there.

But his heart skips a beat as her eyes peel off the ground to look directly at him, as if she could see his gaze watching her behind his dark glasses, though he knew she couldn't. He doesn't show any discomfort at her stare, not a single tell as he blows out his smoke as if he hadn't been watching her in the first place. As if he wasn't watching her approach now. But the closer she gets, the more apparent it is that she was heading more in his direction than the Rexford, and Deacon prepares himself to be made.

After all, she knew nearly all his disguises by now.

Saddling up beside him, she hums, “Got a smoke on you, Drifter?”

“For a girl like you? Always,” he drawls, popping a cigarette out of the packet and offering it to her, biting back the urge to say something smart like  _ what, so you’ve taken up smoking now? _ He's more than a little shocked when she takes it with her teeth, rather than her hands, offering him a wink in return when he lights it for her without missing a beat. Like she hadn’t berated him multiple times on past missions about his habit, as if the possibility of it killing him before literally anything else in the Wastes was even remotely a possibility.

The fact that she handled it like a pro now had him wondering just how much of it was just an act to mess with his mind. How much of it was a cover?

“What a gentleman. It's hard to find guys like you nowadays,” she leans on the alley wall beside him, her own drag low and slow on the cancer stick, as she makes like her attention is on the drifters down at the other end of the street.

Deacon knows better than to believe that, but he wasn't about to blow his cover until she did. Call it the fun of the game.

“Just call me a diamond in the rough,” he chuckles, soft and fake, as her eyes slip back to his.

“I'll call you whatever you want,  _ sugarbomb _ ,” the corner of her mouth crooks upwards, a mischievous intent in her eyes that Deacon recognizes as the same one she gave him whenever she was about to pitch another crazy idea. She lets her pause permeate with another drag of her cigarette before she tosses it down and puts it out with the heel of her boot, her hand coming up to play temptingly with the zipper of her vault suit and fiddling with it, “You know, Drifter… there’s this guy you remind me of…”

“Oh? Is that right?” Deacon asks, hiding any tenseness as he puts out his own cigarette on the brick of the alley wall. “Here's hopin’ he's a friend of yours.”

She giggles, high and lofty in a way that nearly noone had the luxury of doing anymore, before grinning unabashedly at him, “Oh, yeah, the best of. Actually, I think I'd quite like to call you by his name… as you fuck me against the wall back there.”

She pitches it so casually, with a noncommittal gesture further into the alleyway, back where it turns and dips into a dead end that generally nobody goes down with good intentions. So casually, in fact, that it almost goes right over his head. He's glad he didn't have a lungful of smoke, because he'd have been choking on it right about now. The smile that dances on her lips is subdued, with just enough amusement to make it dangerous. And for an instant he wonders if Whisper is fucking with him, or goading him into breaking his cover.

He must have stayed silent a beat too long for her liking, because a moment later her fingers are smoothing along his chest to curl at the collar of his dirty flannel shirt, her breath warm against his jaw as she looks up at him with a mischievous glint in her eye and a proposition at her lips, “What do you say, Drifter? You in or you out?”

Deacon swallows, desperately trying to fight through his sudden cottonmouth before he manages to breathe out, sounding nearly as casual as she had, “So what's this friend of yours called?”

Her fingers already have the top button of his shirt popped as she hums in two, punctuated syllables on the flick of her tongue, her lips hovering dangerously close to his, “Dea-con.”

“It has a nice ring to it, I admit,” he manages to breathe. To stand there and breathe steady against her as if she weren't as close as she was to him, in a way that was so foreign to every other time she’d been just as close in the midst of missions and covers alike. As if he wasn’t fixated on the forward press of her body against his. She’d cornered him, like a cat to a mouse, and seemed ready for him to make her purr.

“It sure does, doesn’t it?” she hums her agreement, before her lips edge on the corner of his jaw, a soft kiss to tempt him into taking her offer or breaking under her pressure.

Deacon decides to call her bluff.

“Alright, stranger,” his voice has a bit of smugness to it now, as if he just  _ knows  _ she’s going to back away at that, “so I know what you’re gonna’ call me, but what should I be callin’ you when I got ya’ on your knees?” He watches her eyes widen, waits with a smirk for her to lean off him and admit defeat to the game of chicken that he was  _ so certain  _ they were playing.

It nearly levels him when she grins up at him and grabs him by the hand, giving him a tug to stumble after her further into the alleyway.

For the first time in a long while, she tells him her real name.


	2. Paladin Danse - Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings: None, really?  
>  Rating: T  
> Summary: More than one secret comes out at Listening Post Bravo.**  
> Gif source: https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/185742172927

Your heart hammered in your chest, clawing away at your sternum as if it were a caged animal desperate to get free. Every inch of you burned with adrenaline, your armor too hot as you felt the sweat beneath it, despite the cold rain that soaked through every inch of your clothing. Shielding your eyes from the downpour, you glare at the Vertibird taking flight, as if you could burst it into flames with such a simple gesture. It doesn’t, instead disappearing into the stormy night before you safely lower your defensive stance.

Turning back to  _ Listening Post Bravo _ , you find Danse watching you carefully.

“Are you alright?” you ask over the roar of the rain hitting the scorched earth beneath you, before realizing that,  _ no, of course he isn’t. _

“Yes,” it’s a good lie, coming from him, as he motions you back into the bunker, “come on, you’re soaked.” He’s equally as wet as you, but you don’t have the energy to remind him of that fact.

Instead, you nod, your lips feeling numb as your tongue darts out reflexively to clean off the wetness there, tasting the water in the rain before you follow him. Realizing that you were shaking, you think maybe you are colder than you thought. You had been so on edge, so worried about positioning yourself strategically between Danse and Maxson, that you hadn’t thought for an instant of your own comfort.

Tracking him out here hadn’t been easy, and you feel the strain settle in as you retreat back into the bunker, your muscles tense and achy when you step over the Protectrons you’d ripped through in a blind effort to get to Danse. You both wait in silence for the elevator to descend deeper, until you’re seated in the belly of the bunker. Danse busies himself with your pack, setting a task for himself--- a mission--- something he knows how to do, as he retrieves your dry set of clothes to hand off to you.

“You should change into something dry, soldier,” he murmurs, not meeting your eye, and you simply nod in response. Neither of you are quite ready to talk about it just yet. To dig deep into what you’d said to Maxson to spare his life, or what you’d left unsaid.

Retreating into the back room, your muscles strain and protest as you struggle to strip free of the wet armor and vault suit beneath, replacing it with the dry Brotherhood-issued black jumpsuit. You lay your wet clothes across some exposed rebar, hoping it will dry before morning. After all, it was far too late and messy outside to travel, and you didn’t want to make your way back to the Prydwen just yet anyway, orders be damned.

When you emerge, you find Danse setting out the bedrolls, and for an instant you can almost trick yourself into believing this was just another night on the road between the two of you. Like nothing had changed at all.

But everything had changed, and the illusion broke as soon as he caught your eye and couldn’t hold your gaze longer than that second.

“Didn’t think you would want to traverse in this weather, but I wouldn’t blame you if you were uncomfortable lowering your guard around me now---”

“Danse,” you stop him right there, “you heard what I said to Maxson. You know how I feel about this.” Your voice lowers a bit, almost into a whisper as you add, “About you.”

The pause is long as you wait for him to respond, before finally, he asks, “I don’t understand it. Why you stood there and--- and told him that he’d have to go through you to get to me. Why would you risk your career--- your life, for a synth?” There’s still disgust in his voice at the word, but it’s subdued, quieted with the exhaustion this day had made in him; tired, mostly, and you didn’t know what was worse to hear in him. His brows are drawn in confusion, as if he truly couldn’t wrap his head around the concept--- around the idea that you were prepared to fight with your life for his after all of the  _ ethics  _ and  _ morals  _ the Brotherhood had instilled in you.

“Do you know why I joined the Brotherhood, Danse?” you begin, moving closer to sit on the bedroll, beside where he was still knelt.

Deep brown eyes dare to meet yours, “You were searching for your son, but I don’t see what that---”

“That’s right. I was looking for Shaun,” you interrupt, biting back your own bitterness that swelled with the more you learned about the Institute and what had become of your son. “So let me ask you this: why do you think I  _ stayed  _ in the Brotherhood, even after I found him?”

Danse only looks at you with that same confusion, searching your gaze for an answer he either couldn’t find, or didn’t want to accept quite yet.

You sigh, “I’ll give you a hint, it wasn’t for the fancy Power Armor, and I think we both know by now that it wasn’t because I subscribed to all of Elder Maxon’s ideals.”

You can spot the exact moment it dawns upon him. The way his eyes widen just a fraction, his brows raising near comically, but then you can see the exact moment he talks himself out of it, too. As if his conclusion was ridiculous. As if you hadn’t been openly flirting with him for months before all of this.

“I don’t see what other reason you could---”

“I stayed for  _ you _ , Danse!” you huff, mild annoyance lacing your tone. “From the moment I got my orders, I knew I wasn’t coming out here to kill you. I was coming out here to see if you were okay. I’ve already lost my husband, I’m coming to terms with losing my son, and I just can’t lose you, too, Danse, not after---” finding you can’t hold his gaze, you look off to the side, blinking away the tears that threaten to fall, and cursing the shakiness in your voice when you admit softly, “not after I’ve fallen in love with you like I have.”

The silence that follows nearly kills you, and you force the dampness in your eyes back down as you make to pretend like you hadn’t said anything at all, “You don’t have to feel the same way, Danse, I just thought you should know---”

He catches your wrist when you try to turn away from him, his hand warm and firm against your own as your eyes snap up to catch his gaze.

“I--- I’m not human. You  _ can’t  _ love me,” he looks like he’s in pain. Like it physically hurts him to say it, and your heart goes back to straining in your chest again.

The hand that isn’t in his desperate grip traces along the edge of his jaw as you sigh sadly, “Oh, Danse, you’re more human than most men I’ve met since waking up in 2287.” Your hand settles on the length of his neck, your thumb tracing gentle movements on the side of his cheek. You wait for him to work through it, to let you know just where this revelation was going to settle with him. Easily, he could escape you, could lean back and release you and leave you to get over your feelings for him as best as you ever would be able to, but he doesn’t. He lingers there, and you watch as his resolve breaks slowly, inch by inch as each wall crumbles behind his eyes one by one until he was left leaning into your hand at his jaw, into your touch.

He turns his head ever so slightly, his lips finding the edge of your palm to leave a tender kiss there that bothers you in ways he undoubtedly hadn’t intended to, coming away with a smile that’s almost playful as he finally speaks, “Quite the mess you’ve gotten us into, isn’t it, soldier?”

“After all these months, now’s the time you choose to tease me?” you shoot back with a huff, but you can’t fight the dust of heat that finds your cheeks, before you add, “For once,  _ I’m  _ the one telling you to be serious.”

He takes a breath, but his smile lingers, a soft curve to his lips that doesn’t go away in the next sentence, “I’m sorry. I just, don’t think you understand how funny it is to hear you saying this right now, when I should be the absolute last thing you want.”

“Danse,” you sigh, leaning closer to him, taking your hand from his grip and moving it to join your other on the opposite side of his jaw, pulling him closer with little resistance, until his lips were a breath away from your own,“what am I going to have to do to show you that you’re exactly what I want?”

You can feel the way his next breath shudders against your lips, his forehead coming to rest against your own as he closes his eyes for a moment, and you find your throat has gone dry as all you can focus on is how his lips would feel against your own.

“Just,” he swallows thickly, and there’s no denying you’re having the same effect on him as his eyes open to level you with the intensity of the want and sadness behind them, “give me some time.”

You nod, pressed against him for one last moment, and concede, “Whatever you need.”


End file.
